Sweet Assassin
by Nocturnallydamned
Summary: A young woman is sent to Turel as a present, but unbeknownst to him she has an ulterior motive. CONCLUSION UP. (ducks barrage of rotten tomatoes and insults). You guys are gonna hate me for this.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: All characters, locations etc from Legacy of Kain are property of Eidos Interactive / Crystal Dynamics.  
  
My name is Althea, and I was not bred for killing.  
  
The days of my infanthood were as those of any normal girl-child - that is to say, any human child with the misfortune to be born into these dark times. From the earliest age, it was my lot to rise in the dim light of dawn, and accompany my brothers and sisters, cousins and friends, to the cold slave pits where we would work until dusk fell - or until we did. My memories of my early years were formed under the tutelage of pain, and consist for the most part of carrying burdens too heavy for my young, malnourished frame, of walking too far before the ever-singing lash, and of crying myself to sleep amidst the low sobs of the wretched souls with whom I was damned.  
  
It was no life for a child.  
  
Nevertheless, humanity survives. Despite the harsh conditions, and the trials of adversity, our race continues to flourish - we have ever been a hardy and adaptive people, but now our lives are short, and steeped in darkness and premature death. Few even remember our day-star, for, since long before my birth, thick, acrid clouds have stifled her radiance, and besides, we must suffer to spend the daylight hours underground, at our captors' behest. We humans, once the masters of a fair and fertile land, have been tamed and caged, flung down to the lowest link of the food chain by men whose very existence makes mockery of the laws of nature.  
  
Vampires.  
  
It has been nigh on a thousand years, by popular reckoning, since the tyrant Kain established his Empire and condemned the land to a slow and consumptive death. A thousand years of human suffering, for which the vampire creed has yet to pay with a single drop of their stolen and tainted blood. There have been attempts at revolution, of course: uprisings without number in fact, each last one of which thinned our stock while doing little more than providing the undead with free sport. There has been no new challenge to Kain's rule in the twenty-two years of my life, and I rather think they are growing impatient with such lacklustre and resigned prisoners.  
  
And yet these creatures are not our direct masters - they remain faceless and aloof, and are but rarely seen, a boon for which I thank my indifferent Gods at every opportunity. Though their decrees ordain every aspect of our daily toil, and likewise every minute detail of our daily punishment (or 'incentive', as they term it), the faces of our jailers and work-masters are almost invariably human. They are traitorous religious fanatics who bow and scrape before our overlords to curry favour. These heartless zealots have fewer morals than the undead themselves, for they are our kin, seduced by the allure of Kain's word, and by the nebulous promise of immortality, which will surely be theirs if they serve without question. Blind they are, these priests of Kain, and secure in their mistaken belief that their loyalty will bring them impunity and salvation.  
  
Oh to be there when they are rewarded!  
  
I digress - though rightly so, for it is seemly that you know of my past and that of my people before I tell my tale. I was bred not for killing, but for slavery; for drudgery, hard labour and the thousand-and-one menial tasks that contribute to the smooth running of any Lordling's lands. Unbeknownst to me, I was not fated to remain so.  
  
As time passed and I came into my twenty-first year, it happened that one of the most senior Priests - that is, a Priest high enough in the hierarchy to merit a staff of office and obsequities galore from his inferiors, and low enough on the food chain to run the risk of death whenever he communed with his Gods - made an impromptu inspection of my own habitual work-place. He was preceded by a gaggle of over-excited adepts, who entered the wash- room where I toiled at this hour in a most comical fashion. Each one of them, unwilling to turn their backs on the Priest for the sake of ceremony, backed awkwardly into the laundry, bent double, murmuring notions of their unworthiness, interspersed with declarations of his greatness. The Priest, a great barrel-chested ox of a man, followed haughtily behind, his nose seemingly attracted to the rafters while his darting eyes took in every detail of the room.  
  
"What is that stench? Do you not make your slaves see to their own cleanliness? If the Dark Gods only knew . . ."  
  
The Priest's empty threat brought an instant response, sending the adepts into a minor frenzy as they fell over themselves in an attempt to chastise their charges with their ever-ready instruments of pain. The Priest watched the proceedings with amusement, allowing himself to feel superior in the knowledge that he was above such self-degrading and sycophantic acts. Bright, beady eyes assessed the room's quota of drudges, appraising and disregarding each with a sneer until at last his gaze came to rest upon me.  
  
I instantly lowered my eyes. Submission was one of my earliest and hardest- learned lessons: one was far less likely to be beaten if one but kept one's eyes on the ground. I observed the greyish water in my wash-bucket rippling as the Priest's heavy stride brought him up onto the wooden platform where I stood, trembling in fearful anticipation. Curse my foolish curiosity! I had not been fast enough to avert my gaze, and now I was to be punished - and not for the first time that day. I quickly attempted to mollify him. If retribution was to be forthcoming, I might be able to lessen the beating by showing my compliance at this early stage. It had worked before. Shuffling around so that my back was towards the approaching figure, I slid the dun- coloured work pinafore from my shoulders, allowing my punisher easier access to my back, already lacerated and criss-crossed with badly-healed scars from years of unquenchable curiosity.  
  
Long seconds dragged past, and the blow never came. Not wishing to compound my situation, I remained still and quiet - were I to look in his direction, or ask him why he delayed, it might give him just the incentive he needed.  
  
"Turn around, girl," The Priest's voice, coloured with impatience, held another note that did little to reassure me. Drudge though I was, I had no desire to lose what little unscarred skin remained to me, and I shuddered at the thought of spending the rest of my days shunned like the poor wretch who had recently been plunged face-first into a vat of boiling fat. One needed to retain what little advantages one had, in a place like this.  
  
However, the tone of his voice intimated that he would brook no defiance, and, steeling myself for the sting of the whip, I turned reluctantly towards him, my gaze ever resting on the ground at his feet. His touch was so unexpected that I had a hard time keeping my surprise hidden - but, had I jumped back, or voiced an outcry, I would surely have angered him. He used three fingers to tilt up my chin, and still I kept my eyes lowered. It was a tricky and dangerous game in which we were now engaged, and one I had seen played before. The guards, bored with their compliant slaves, would betimes play tricks on them to provoke a reaction. As soon as a minor transgression occurred, out came the lash.  
  
"Look at me."  
  
I closed my eyes and swallowed against the lump in my throat. I was cornered. If I looked him directly in the face, I would violate the rules set down for us slaves by the adepts; if I did not, I would disobey a direct command. Damnable Priest! With my spirits sinking fast, I dared to glance into his face, expecting a snide smirk to show me how wrong I had been to do so. Instead, I found he was regarding me with frank interest. I remained stock-still as he inspected me, turning my head this way and that as though searching for imperfections, applying a squeezing pressure to my limbs as though testing their firmness, and finally conducting a despairing examination of my back. With a sigh he addressed me once more.  
  
"How old are you, girl?"  
  
I told him, as near as I could estimate it.  
  
"Have you been touched?"  
  
Having no idea what the Priest meant, I stared at him blankly, like an idiot.  
  
His shoulders slumped and he exhaled with exaggerated patience before elaborating on his question in terms he evidently thought more suited to my intellect.  
  
"Have you known men? The adepts perhaps? Or-" he paused, mouth curling with distaste, "Your fellow prisoners?"  
  
I at last deduced his meaning. Did this man who sat at the head of the vampire church, whose orders controlled our every task and duty really have so meagre a grasp of the structure of our lives? In general, we had neither the time, inclination nor the energy for such activities, and our living conditions were such that a minor infection could become epidemic in a matter of days. Where we had the choice, we abstained, and so I replied in the negative.  
  
It was the worst decision I ever made. 


	2. Chapter 2

My months in the vampire temple were eye-opening to say the least.   
  
It was as though I had lived up until now in a small, dark hole, safely hidden in some pain-ridden dream-realm from the bleak truths of the world. Now came the harsh awakening. The temple was dedicated to serving the Dark Gods as one entity, and for the first few months of my sojourn, I was treated as the lowest of the low, an annoyance to be suffered until they could reshape me to their liking. I came to hate them all; priests, adepts and novices alike, for they all treated me with the same aloof disdain.  
  
On a positive note, I was healed of my wounds, the recent lash-marks plied with poultices and sweet-scented oils that made my recovery an almost pleasurable process. Even the older scars were slowly but surely removed, though this, on the other hand, was a long and distressing ordeal of which I remember little apart from the darkness, and the pain, the cold, gleaming knives, and the philtres and phials of foul-smelling ichor. The results, however, were more than worth the price.  
  
From the moment I arrived, I was granted free reign of the marbled halls of my new prison, and my favourite haunt quickly became the spacious natural spas that bubbled and steamed at the heart of the temple complex. As I mentioned, my former masters had never considered the cleanliness of their charges to be a high priority, and so the first time my aching limbs met the warm, soothing embrace of the frothing waters, I became an instant addict. However, my initial cleansing was no easy task. Years of grime and dirt, oil and blood had left both my skin and hair soiled beyond recognition, and so it was that after several hours of dedicated effort on both my part and that of the adepts who assisted me, I was, for the first time in long years, clean. When I had been dried and dressed to their satisfaction, a looking-glass was made available to me, and for the longest time I could but stand and stare. I knew my own features, of course; but to see them thus, pink and shining and aglow with warmth and life, was a tonic to a long-troubled mind. My hair provided an even deeper surprise, as it draped itself in long glimmering cascades of spun gold about my shoulders and arms. I was blonde. 

The months progressed and my treatment remained consistent. I was well-fed on meats and fruits the like of which I had never seen in my long years in the slave pits, and any guilt I felt at the fortuitous change in my station was assuaged as I convinced myself it was all beyond my control. I was also given something of an education, though this tended in the main towards the skills a woman would need only for the bridal bed, and this, along with the practical instruction I was beginning to receive as I entered my fifth month in my palatial prison, combined to convince me that I was being primed for a specific role.  
  
My days I spent in guiltless, opulent luxury, the priests at the temple aiding me in honing both body and mind to the needs of some as yet unnamed new master. I thought little of the fellow inmates with whom I had grown and suffered, for it was a pleasantly simple matter to forget my past cares in the sublime and enlightened atmosphere of the holy sanctuary. As my training progressed, so the unfriendly inhabitants of the temple became more kindly disposed toward me, until at last they came to treat me with a species of sympathy, underlaid with a deep-seated envy that I found impossible to fathom.  
  
At length, I began to wonder when my training would be complete. I had exhausted the collection of written texts on the diverse methods of pleasure-giving, and the priests had professed they could teach me no more without despoiling the very virtue for which I had been chosen. Why then had my intended host not yet claimed me?  
  
It was this very quandary that kept me awake that fateful night. The priests would not – or could not – give me a satisfactory answer, and so Sleep and I were not the most intimate of friends that evening. As I lay restless, aimlessly counting the ripples in the fabric above my head, it dawned on me by degrees that I was no longer alone. The man's appearance in my chamber was far from sudden, but nonetheless I was shocked enough to leap to my feet as I became sure of the intrusion, my first instinct being to find some large, heavy object – and hide behind it.

After a pregnant moment of the deepest silence, a calm and neutral voice, lacking in any trace of anger or displeasure, cut across the still air.

  
"Come out, woman. I'm not going to hurt you."  
  
Six months of fine treatment, education and spoken truths could not erase the twenty-odd years of lies and punishment that lay beneath. I stayed where I was.

"I am no priest. I come to seek your aid."

The man's statement was as vague as it was incredible. I kept my peace, huddled in a little ball behind the chest. His next sentence caused my blood to chill, and an unnameable emotion to course through my veins, enlivening every fibre of my being through the power of unpleasant memories

  
"Do you care so little for those you left behind?"  
  
Guilt, so long the oppressed, surged through me anew and fought for dominance. Images of my new, faultless and comfortable palace met head-on with nightmare visions of the slave-pits, and at length, guilt won through. 

The intruder had not moved since speaking, and so I chanced to raise my head above the level of the oaken trunk behind whose stout walls I was currently sheltering, ready to duck back down at the first sign of trouble.  
  
The uninvited stood in the centre of the room, his stature perfectly in keeping with the deep, mellow voice in which he had addressed me. In the pale moonlight that filtered through a crack in the heavy linen curtains, I perceived that he was dressed head to toe in trous and shirt of a deep maroon, overlaid with a fur-edged cloak that alternated in patches of olive and tan. Were he standing in a leafy glade, I would not have seen him.  
  
"Come out," he urged once again. "You have nothing to fear."  
  
Was this at last the man for whom I had been trained and prepared? If so, why had I not been forewarned of his arrival? Not wishing to start off on the wrong foot if he were indeed the one, I rose, dusted off my knees and stood awaiting his word.  
  
The stranger was silent a long time. I could discern nothing of his facial features, hidden as they were in the depths of a voluminous hood, but I could guess at his expression from the pose of his body: the head tilted to one side, the hands drawn up to rest on his hips. At length, he nodded, more to himself than to me.  
  
"I asked if you cared for the fate of your fellow humans." His voice was without cadence, giving nothing away.  
  
I stuttered a little, confused by this approach. I was expecting something a little less subtle, if the Priests' tales of their vampire Gods were to be believed.   
  
"Of course I do," I managed at last, not even sure, in my own heart of hearts, whether I was telling the truth.  
  
The man snorted aloud. "You could have fooled me. It seems very much as though you have already forgotten your roots. Look at you - a few weeks of comfort and you have blithely forgotten your kin."  
  
Much as it galled me to admit it, he was right, but I had yet to guess at why he was telling me this.   
  
"Who are you . . . Sir?" I asked using a generic title for fear of offending.  
  
"A friend to humankind." The low, growling timbre of the phrase left me in little doubt as to his true nature, and simultaneously convinced me that he was not my intended. 

As I pondered this development, he continued: "There are those of us who feel the balance is wrongly weighted, and that it is time for that balance to shift."  
  
I swallowed hard, the revelation of his identity overriding my response to his latest declaration. 

"You are . . . Vampire, then, Sir?" Even here in the temple the undead but rarely made their presence felt, and in six months I had yet to come across one of their kind within the sanctuary walls - until now. The knowledge chilled me.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Then . . .forgive me, but I fail to understand why you come to me with this talk of balance?"   I almost expected this creature, who, if popular tales were true, was the embodiment of divinity, to remove my head for my audacity.  
  
He waved aside my question with impatience and crossed the floor towards me, taking hold of my shoulder and addressing me in a fierce whisper.   
  
"If we vampires bring humankind down to the last man, we condemn our own to a slow, lingering death. And as for you, do you not care that your race will not endure? Even now, the last pockets of human resistance are being systematically eradicated – do you want to live to see the last days of humanity?"   
  
Despite the fact that my shoulder felt as though it were caught in a frozen vice, I spoke my mind, and felt the conviction rise in me as I said it.   
  


"No."

  
"Then it is time to act."  
  
Even as he spoke, I knew it was true. If mankind were to survive, something had to be done now to curb the vampires' control of us before it was too late – though what my intended role in this might be I could not yet guess. Nonetheless, as his words infused me with new strength, and I knew instinctively that this much was true: the worm would turn, the underdog snap at the heels of the overlords, the scales tip. No more would we be the oppressed.

It never occurred to me at the time that my recent life of ease and extravagance might have softened my perceptions of the true threat.

My visitor took a step back and released me, much to my relief. I rubbed my upper arm to get the feeling back while he continued to fill my head with his unorthodox ideas.  
  
"You are in a prime position to help with the shifting of this balance."  
  
"How so, Sir – if you'll pardon my ignorance?"  
  
"You are shortly to be transported to your new home at the Turelim stronghold,"  
  
I caught my breath. The identity of my new master was revealed to me at last.  
  
"While there, you will perform a function which, while unenviable, will make you the perfect candidate for a certain mission."  
  
"What mission might that be, Sir?" Despite my initial fear of the intruder, the mere thought of an endeavour whose outcome could shape the fate of humanity filled me with a species of dynamic motivation. I felt as though I could accomplish anything.  
  
He strode towards me once again, and I could feel the excitement that flowed from him, as though electricity were surging through the cold air as he closed the distance between us.  
  
"With one act, you can strike a major blow for humankind."  
  
His fervour was beginning to frighten me.  
  
"What are you suggesting, Sir…?" Much as the life-loving half of me tried to convince me I could live without knowing the answer, my curious half, my reckless half, would not be suppressed.  
  
My visitor inclined his head so that he could whisper in a conspiratorial fashion in my ear. 

"When you lie with Turel, his guard will be down."  
  
My mouth fell open into a little round 'O' of surprise. Although in truth I had been trained for just such a purpose, no-one had ever actually mentioned my duty in such a way, and just for a moment, it threw me. My eyes still could not penetrate the dark shade of the intruder's hood, but his face was close to mine now, his breath beating rhythmic and cold against my cheek. Something about the situation was exciting him – and his excitement was contagious.  
  
"When he takes you to his bedchamber, pander to his every whim; make him feel safe in your charge; blind him with female guile." His voice dropped several tones and became a hoarse and ragged whisper against my ear.  
  
"Seduce him."  
  
I caught my breath again as I envisaged the scenario. Even as I did so, I knew it was possible - I had learned a thousand-and-one tricks that would beguile and bewitch. My attention was brought back to my companion as his hand gripped my shoulder again. This time, the chill was bearable, although it caused my skin to erupt into gooseflesh. He delivered the final part of his plan in a rumbling growl.  
  
"Then slay him."  
  
My heart was beating as though I had just run a mile. All the play-acting with all the eunuchs in the world could not have prepared me for the intoxicating proximity of this stranger and the act of heresy he was urging me to commit. I managed a nod, and with some effort I stood and distanced myself from him.  
  
He also gained his feet, his fists lightly but notably clenched as he spoke. "You accept, then?"  
  
"I do."   
  
"For humanity," he breathed, seemingly overcome by some beclouded but nonetheless virulent emotion, and made his exit.  
  
"For humanity," I echoed in response.

A/N

Thanks to everyone who reviewed – I really don't know when I'm gonna be able to add more because *cringes* I already had this written, and I have no writing time when I'm not on holiday.


	3. Chapter 3

There is an old adage that says: 'time flies when you're having fun'. I used to believe it. The speed of the following day's passing convinced me that time also flies when you desperately wish it would stop in its tracks and start moving backwards. Although I had been unable to sleep after my visitor had departed, the remainder of the dark hours all too quickly surrendered to dawn, and, at first light, the preparations began.  
  
The Priest who had liberated me from the slave pits arrived in a flurry of ceremony just before ten bells, and, once suitable obsequeties had been offered him by the fawning Temple adepts, he took me aside into an antechamber in order to ascertain that I had been adequately prepared. During those long, tedious hours, he reaffirmed all that I had been taught, and tested me rigorously on the theory I had learned. He emphasised the importance of adhering rigidly to the seemingly pointless protocols that they had gone to pains to teach me - they, he said, would drastically increase my life-expectancy. I listened attentively: despite the monotonous repetition, I knew the advice he imparted constituted survival tactics, and having come this far, I had no desire to die.  
  
As the first, warming rays of the afternoon sun filtered like burnished gold through the many windows of the temple, he professed himself satisfied with my knowledge. Before I could so much as breathe a sigh of relief, a gaggle of excited female adepts ushered me from the room and subjected me to several hours of pampering, and brushing, and cleansing, and oiling, and finally dressed me in a specially-made robe of damask and gauze that glittered with an magnificent display of precious stones. They spent a further hour arranging my hair into an unlikely and precarious style, topped off with a headdress which, were I to sell it, would probably buy me a small town.  
  
All preparations ceased with the arrival of two massive Turelim guards. If I had been surprised at the sycophancy shown to the Priest, then the abject abasement of every person present before the Turelim left me in a state of shock. No-one spoke, and even the revered Priest lowered his head in awe.  
  
"Are you ready?"  
  
The question, though aimed at the Priest, was indirectly alluding to me, though I rather had the impression that my readiness was of little consequence to them.  
  
The Priest gave a scurrying, sweeping bow and affirmed our mutual preparedness.  
  
And so the journey began. As it happened, the Temple was but a half-hour's march from the Turelim stronghold, and I found myself travelling in the middle of a small procession. One of the Vampire guards strode at the fore, leading the way; The Priest and I followed immediately behind; at our backs marched four armed adepts, while the other vampire brought up the rear. As we travelled, the Priest gibbered at me almost incessantly, his nervousness obvious even to me. Most of his pointless banter was of great disinterest, up until we reached the inner gate to the Fortress. There, stationed above the second portcullis rose a long wooden beam, suspended from the ground by two vertical posts. From its horizontal length were suspended a number of corpses in a most peculiar state. They dangled from the beam by lengths of rope, tied around their wrists, and although the wood above them was stained with bloody scratches, it was not immediately apparent how they had died. As we walked closer, however, I was able to make out a glint from the dark metal of the long, cruel spikes that rose perpendicularly beneath each hapless body, offering a slow and painful death to each, once the strength in their arms was spent. I shuddered, drawing my thin shawl around me. It afforded little comfort.  
  
"'Traitor's Row'," explained the Priest, seeing my curious stare. "Here you will find treacherous vampires, unworthy priests and rebellious humans, set aloft for all to see as a reminder of the extent of Lord Turel's far- seeing eye."  
  
This one comment cleared my mind and simultaneously sent me into a spiral of despair: what in the world was I doing here? I was no assassin! I hadn't the slightest idea how to kill someone - so how could I possibly hope to succeed against one of the mightiest powers in all the land? I had been a fool to listen to the intruder - I had been seduced by his words, by the ease with which he seemed to think the deed could be done. This was madness - the attempt itself would get me killed, and by the look of Traitor's Row, not pleasantly either. For one insane moment I contemplated an escape; but one look at the solid lines of the gate that had already descended behind me, the grim, set faces of the multitude of warriors who guarded it, and the vivid memory of Traitor's Row all combined to convince me that the attempt would be hopeless. Head hanging low, I reluctantly followed the procession.  
  
The central chamber of the keep was reached by means of broad stone passageways, arranged in concentric circles that drove ever deeper into the heart of the fortress. As the restless torchlight at last illumined the doors to this holy of holies, I began to feel the first real stirrings of fear. Here I was, a girl who had been a filthy slave up until just a few months ago, but a few steps away from the most private dwelling of one of the oldest and most fearsome of the Vampire Gods. What was I doing here? Suddenly, my glorious rainment seemed drab and ordinary, my exotic coiffure lank and unimaginative, my shimmering headdress a child's hobby project. Surely he would see me for what I was, glorified pit-scum daring to attempt an assassination by exploitation of the needs of the flesh? It was then I began to fret. If he could read me by my appearance, would he also perceive my motive? Would he be able to see through the guise to the burning mission that drove me? I berated myself for the mere thought. Turel would see no flaw in my dedication, for the priests had prepared me well - how could they do otherwise? They would not dare risk the wrath of their unforgiving Gods by sending an unprepared concubine. To fail their masters was to sentence themselves to death.  
  
With this assertion restoring a small measure of my confidence, I took a deep breath and waited for the doors to open. The carven portals parted with a slow, painful creak, spilling light the colour of rotten seaweed across the corridor floor. My heart was in my throat as I crossed the threshold, flanked as I was by two massive guards, and preceded by the trembling Priest. After all the years of fear and horror stories, overlaid with my recent months of preparation, I was at last within moments of finding myself in the presence of one of the great immortals who had inspired terror for a hundred generations amongst the human populace of Nosgoth. The strain was too much - the leaden pressure of the creature's presence in the chamber made my legs tremble and I dared not look up, so instead I followed the priest, judging his position in front of me by the location of his sandaled feet.  
  
Abruptly, he stopped, and I had to pull up short to keep from running into him. He dropped to his knees and prostrated himself before a figure I had not yet the confidence to face. I managed - just barely - to prevent myself from following him to the ground. Though my legs were trembling fit to throw me to the floor, the priest's recent warnings to me echoed in my head - 'Do not stray from the protocols in which you have been instructed and you will live longer.' I remained standing.  
  
It shortly became impressed upon me that a low murmur of conversation had prevailed since my entry, and this now continued, none of it seemingly aimed at me. I gathered my wits and forced myself to look up, ready or not, I would see for myself if the tales were true.  
  
The image that met my eyes was on a par with my expectations: more morbidly realistic than the fantastic tales the priests had spun for me, and far more civilized and orderly than the horror stories with which I had been raised. Turel sat aloft on a great throne, seemingly hewn from a single chunk of some opaque, green crystal. Its polished curves and planes reflected dully the light that gleamed with unnatural, sulphurous glow from steaming glass orbs set into the walls. He was flanked on his left by a sour-faced female, dressed in a most bizarre fashion: though her head was covered with a loose-wrapped yashmak, from which her eyes gleamed with malicious alertness, the rest of her garb was contrarily revealing. A simple black shift fell in graceful lines from her shoulders to the floor, gathering in deep folds around her ankles and toes, while the neckline plunged in a daring V to stop just below her navel. Long, full sleeves smothered slender arms, which terminated in long-nailed fingers so bedecked with jewelry that the claw-like deformation of her evolving talons was hardly noticeable at first sight. Her demeanour was that of a woman who has fought a thousand years' worth of battles to gain her coveted position, and is not about to give it up in a hurry. To Turel's right stood a figure only slightly lesser than the Vampire Lord himself in stature and might. Lean of cheek and languid-eyed, I identified him immediately from the description the Priests had given me. Judging by his position, the pips at his collar, and the scarified tattoo that covered half of his left cheek, this was Turel's own first-born. With the dead-straight hair that fell in serrated lines to his shoulders, and the aura of confidence and maturity he projected, he might almost have been attractive, were it not for the cruel downturn in his thin lips that denoted his cold heart, and the way he eyed up the new human arrivals as though dinner had just been served.  
  
Just as I finished my appraisal of the two characters, Turel silenced his child's report by bringing his claw in a chopping motion through the air, his full attention fixed on me now. I flinched before his gaze and instantly found a spot on the floor that merited my attention. But my curiosity has ever been my bane. Within seconds my reluctant gaze had been drawn to the trio around the throne again, in time to see Turel motion them both in my direction. I drew myself upright as I had been taught, and waited for them to approach and conduct their search. The twain slid quickly toward me, like cats to warm cream, the woman closing her eyes and reaching her gnarled digits towards me - I felt the faintest feathered touch of her mind meeting mine, and I endeavoured to think of everything I had learned in the temple texts, anything to keep my mind occupied, and conceal my real goal. Meanwhile the man conducted a brief and chivalrous search of my person, ostensibly seeking concealed weapons. Since my knife was snug in my garter against my inner thigh, he found nothing. The woman, too was soon done with her investigation, and the two spared me an unanimous sneer before departing the room.  
  
"I give her two days."  
  
"Would you care to take a wager on that?"  
  
The rest of their derisive conversation was thankfully lost to me as the doors closed firmly behind them. 


	4. Chapter 4

The high priest, meanwhile, was still abased before his God, forehead pressed to the ground, arms outstretched before him in what must have been a most uncomfortable position. Turel ignored him, looking straight at me, while I returned his curious gaze. The much-maligned vampire was greater in size than any of the stories (apart from those inevitable tall tales that make the protagonists ten feet tall with eyes like saucers) would have had me believe. His mass exceeded my own nearly twice over. He was dressed in a floor-length, armless robe of ceremonial style; its high collar and wide flaring shoulders boasting borders raised into relief with embroidery work that in my estimation would have taken half the slaves in the pits several weeks to do. The robe itself was of the darkest green, the colour of pine needles at night, while the borders and piping were of gold- leaf, and swirled in an endlessly changing design that comprised a thousand- and-one curlicues, and zigzags, and abstract shapes. His clan symbol was embossed in a stylised manner onto each breast of the robe, and overlaid with squares of jet that gleamed dully in the greenish light. I attempted not to focus on his face for too long, and instead found myself staring at his hair, which was drawn back from his face in an uncompromising way that emphasised his widow's peak. The lengthy black tresses fell away out of sight behind him, and presumably settled on the throne.  
  
The high priest's voice broke my concentration as he began the inevitable lengthy and tedious dedication of me to Turel, as a gift from the Temple.  
  
"O mighty God, master of all peoples who dwell within the domain of the Turelim, noble and merciful Lord upon whom we mortals in our imperfection are not fit to gaze, O revered and powerful Prince, we your humble servants salute you ..."  
  
"Get to the point," The voice was like the sound of rotten carcasses being dragged over broken glass.  
  
The priest stuttered and became rather flustered, but soon regained his stride.  
  
"We offer you this humble gift in honour of your continued lenience and beneficence, and ask that you allow this mortal to please you, unfit as she is to even look upon you."  
  
The Priest's elaborate ad-libbing had obviously not pleased Turel, as he interjected sharply: "She is unfit? Why then have you brought her? Is this or is this not the best your temple has to offer?"  
  
The Priest stiffened, horrified at the decision that now lay before him: If he said 'yes', Turel might strike him for his insolence and demand that he search for better stock - that is, if I was not to his liking. If he said 'no', Turel would surely kill him for having retained the best and given Turel a substandard offering. Despite fears for my own safety, I was chuckling inside to see the tables turned on the scurrying toady.  
  
"Yes," he stuttered eventually. At least then the fault was not his.  
  
Turel nodded evenly.  
  
"Get out."  
  
The priest stood quickly, apparently quite at a loss - he had expected more of an audience, and if half of what he had told me was true, he had a whole wish list he wanted to present to his God in exchange for his gift.  
  
Turel dismissed him without so much as a glance - his attention was still on me, as it had been for the last few minutes. Although it was fair burning my eyes to look him in the face, I knew from my teachings that this offered me the best chance of survival. The priests had learned through trial and error, and apparently far fewer of their offerings were killed at first presentation now. The thought was far from comforting. The huge double doors clanged shut behind the priest and for a moment, Turel and I did but stare at one another. I knew I must wait for his command, but I was itching to do something so that I might see how difficult it would be to take him by surprise. His voice bisected my thoughts.  
  
"Dance for me."  
  
I nodded once. I had been fully prepared for this - this was how it always began, the odalisque would undertake a slow, undulating dance that combined rhythm and practice, whose various contortions were meant to demonstrate the woman's flexibility and skill. I had the routine down to perfection, and pulled it off without a hitch, despite the trembling in my limbs and the fear that sat like a cold lump in the pit of my stomach. I finished in a position of invitation, standing upright, legs crossed one before the other, arms outstretched, head down, eyes up.  
  
Apparently there was as much to the dance as the priests had hinted, for Turel rose almost immediately from his carven throne, and stood watching me balefully. Shortly, he drew his robe open at the chest, slid it from his shoulders and allowed it to fall with a quiet hiss of heavily embroidered cloth to the waiting floor. My heart skipped a beat as I understood with some finality that this was real. There was no turning back now - what I had instigated, I must see through to the end. As he drew near, and I saw him for the first time close-up in the light, I understood in that one crystal-clear moment what it was to be of their kind, and why it was that he inspired such fear, such hatred.  
  
With his robe gone, his chest was laid bare. The skin was a dirty grey that was semi-translucent, and stretched so tight over his frame that it shone with tension. Beneath the torpid surface, the many-branched veins throbbed and pulsed with stolen life, and I found myself wondering regretfully how many had died through the centuries to keep this parasite alive; the blood of how many poor damned souls invigorated the bloated arteries, drove the overgrown muscles. Too many. As he moved to stand before me, I looked at last at his face and saw straight into the eyes of Hell. Through the gold-tinged irises I glimpsed a tortured soul forced into a shell of evil; rotten to the core from all the foul deeds it had accomplished since its unholy rebirth. Somewhere in those blazing orbits, the knowledge of what he was damned him incessantly, but the beast within had dominance. The eyes themselves were set deep into the head, giving the impression that the ridged forehead protruded. The cheeks were sunken, and no extraneous flesh clung to the bones of his features, while his chin, cleft and cleft again, stuck out in a permanent display of belligerence. Turel was ugly. Just being this close to him filled my head with images of bloated bodies washed up on the riverside, their lifeblood replaced with the swelling waters; of malformed animals, and of murdered babies.  
  
I almost lost control as he seized me by the waist and hauled me against him, his breath reminiscent of the air that escapes from a drowned corpse when it is pierced, cold and wet and infinitely putrid. And worse, he stank of blood. I had once come across a fellow slave who had come to misadventure with one of the rolling mills in the pits - he had been pulped like the paper he had spent his whole life producing. The priests had had us scrub him off the rollers like any other stain, and I had almost fainted from the stench of flattened organs, of leaking marrow, but most of all from the all-pervading salt-acid stench of blood. Now, as Turel's breath wafted against my face, I felt my gorge rise. Knowing that what I did next would determine whether I lived or died, I swallowed against the bile in my throat, quelled every ounce of hatred that had somehow gathered itself into a tight knot in my chest, and smiled sweetly at him. It is not an uncommon trait amongst us humans - especially us women, as we are sometimes the most adept at hiding our true feelings - to play at compliance. While my outer self projected wanton desire, my inner self was busy tearing out a symbolic Turel's eyes and stabbing him repeatedly in the head with his own sword. What two-faced creatures we all are, at heart . . . and so I allowed myself to be drawn back towards his throne, where he seated himself comfortably and settled me on his lap.  
  
The human mind has ways of dealing with events that disturb or unnerve it, and will often bury unpleasant or potentially damaging memories beneath layers of defensive strata, sometimes never to be retrieved until some key event sparks the memory recall process. I am glad to say that the long minutes I spent on that throne with the Lord of the Turelim is a back spot. I thank my Gods for that. I remember nothing but the odd fact that he was strangely obsessed with my hair - it was not until much later that I found out why. My memories now start at the instant I decided I was going to try for the knife. From the information my mysterious visitor had imparted to me when I received it from him, the blade had been dipped in some substance lethal to vampirekind. Otherwise such as I would have no hope of ending so ancient and powerful a creature's existence in what could easily turn into a contest of steel, no matter how relaxed and subdued the intended victim. All I had to do, according to my guide, was to get the blade into his heart - this would ensure that the toxin was distributed throughout his system with sufficient speed to allow me chance to escape. If I missed the heart, his life would still be ended, but possibly not before he had ended mine into the bargain. I had, as a consequence, spent sufficient time familiarising myself with certain chapters in my lesson-books on vampire anatomy, and was almost certain I could hit the required organ first time.  
  
Seeing that the vampire's attention was firmly held elsewhere, and that my loosened hair fortuitously hid most of my actions from his view, buried as he was in its silken depths, I began to move my clothing about to see if the rustling would disturb him. Not a bit. Presently, the knife slid from its concealment within the folds of my skirt, and I deadened the impact of any betraying noises with a melodramatic sigh, instantly fearing that my pretence was showing. He showed no signs of alarm, and so I continued to bring the weapon closer.  
  
In times of desperation, I have often found that I have reserves of strength otherwise undreamed-of, both mental and physical - how else can I explain my lengthy life-span? It was this reserve that enabled me now to reach out and caress the cold skin of the vampire's cheek, applying gentle pressure to get him to turn his head just a little further to the left so that I had a clear path to his chest. Turel seemed happy enough to comply, and though my hand felt as though it were pressed against something vile and unnatural, like an animal bladder stuffed with slugs and leeches, I managed to retain my composure, and keep him distracted until I was certain my one-shot aim would be true.  
  
With the phrase 'for humanity' ringing in my head, I drove the blade hilt- deep into cold, unyielding flesh, until I felt it grate on bone.  
  
My mission was accomplished. Our blow had been struck. 


	5. Chapter 5

I had been hit before, of course, thousands of times over the course of my twenty-odd years, but this blow was worse than all the rest put together. My head snapped so far to the left with the force of the impact that I thought my neck had broken. Obviously, the blow had not been intended to kill, or I would not be telling this tale. Nevertheless, the force was sufficient to send me hurtling through the air to drop from the level of the throne to the floor and skid to a halt in a tangle of silk a good twenty feet away. My vision was darkened, speckled with whirling flashes of silver and white, and for the second time that evening, I had to fight to hold on to the contents of my stomach.  
  
But what of the knife and its deadly poison? Turel had risen from his seat and now stood before it with the dagger hilt protruding from his chest, as though sporting some bizarre body ornament. However, although the weapon jutted out directly above his heart, bang on target, and despite the slow trickle of dark, viscous blood that was beginning to edge its way across his waxen chest, there were no obvious signs that the wound had affected him in the slightest. This could not be! I scrambled backwards, crab- like, on all fours, while he glared at me with one eyebrow raised, battering me with the force of his unspoken anger. Then, he called for assistance.  
  
Several burly members of his Elite guard arrived at once, the urgency of their Lord's summons hastening their response. Two of them grabbed at me roughly and hauled me to my feet. Shocked as I was, I offered no resistance. Moments later, Turel's first-born and his female companion arrived, hot on the heels of the guards. Once they had assured themselves of Turel's well-being, they turned their malevolent glares upon me, and shortly fell to scornful banter.  
  
"Told you she wouldn't last two days."  
  
The black-veiled woman sighed and handed the male a set of keys. "Try not to kill any of them this time, Isaac. Last time you won a bet . . ."  
  
She fell silent as her Lord fixed her with a disapproving glare. Turel then gave vent to a sigh that terminated in a low growl before he yanked out the blade, eyed it with mild curiosity and tossed it aside, commenting on the shoddy workmanship. As his gaze pierced me anew, a shudder of fear ran the length of my body, and, futile as I knew the attempt would be, I began to struggle against the iron grip of the Turelim who held me. While the laughter of the guards rang in my ears, their Lord strode towards me with his face locked in a deceptively calm expression, one which I knew only too well from my time in the slave pits - it always augured ill.  
  
With his black-tipped claw, he drew my attention to the wound in his chest, wiping away the single scarlet droplet that had not yet been absorbed back into his skin. I noted that the small entry wound had already healed without trace, and I cursed both myself and my idiotic visitor for our mutual stupidity. Turel's sibilant hiss brought my thoughts back to the dire reality of the here-and-now.  
  
"I will have the priests who trained you burned alive," he began, apparently unaware of my own dislike of the people in question. "I will raze their temple to the ground with my bare hands, but not before they have begged me for forgiveness for sending such as you to serve me."  
  
Having said his piece, he drew his own dagger, and my heart skipped a beat - how many times would he cut me before I died? The words 'death of a thousand cuts' rang in my mind and I cursed my brain for bombarding me with such images at such an inappropriate time. Turel then caught hold of the end of my hair and tugged at it, so that I had to look at him. That drowned-corpse smell assailed me again, making my stomach churn while he hissed in my face, showering my lips with droplets of spittle.  
  
"I would have shown you favour."  
  
With a snarl, he raised the knife and I closed my eyes instinctively. I heard and felt it as it fell, took note of the dry 'shrikking' noise it made as the keen blade parted matter, and then I opened my eyes, disbelieving, to verify my suspicion. The bottom twelve inches of my hair lay flaccid in his fist, cut off at the nape of my neck. My hair - my newfound crowning glory - was gone, taken from me in the space of a second by the whim of the Vampire god.  
  
Turel spared me one last glance before turning on his heel and stalking back towards his throne, his claws twining playfully in the stolen length of my hair. He spoke but two more words in my presence: "Traitor's Row".  
  
There is something in human nature that incites us to fight long after the battle seems lost, to deny the inevitable fading of our own finite lives. It was this instinct that kept me struggling against the guards' hold on me, much as it amused them. As their heavy tread took us out through the double doors to my impending doom, I tried to console myself with the unlikely idea that Kain's empire was beginning to crumble. Surely, if at least one of their own kind plotted against the Vampire hierarchy, did that not mean that others might be embroiled in the conspiracy as well? I wasn't even sure I believed it myself.  
  
Having left the main body of the keep, we ascended a wide, winding stair whose dark confines spilled us forth at long last into the frigid chill of the night air. Up ahead, a geometric shape loomed ink-black against the starlit sky, and as we approached, I recognised the cross-bar and the sagging bodies that depended from it. Traitor's Row. My struggles began afresh as I was transferred to the cold arms of one guard, while the other operated the mechanism that would lower the spikes beneath the portion of the beam that was now reserved for me. How long would I last? No weakling was I, to be sure. The repetitive actions of such simple chores as washing and scrubbing, though far from taxing, had imbued my limbs with a certain firmness and suppleness. Ironically enough, these were the very qualities that had caught the attention of the Priest, and consequently brought about my current predicament. I imagined I could hold on for quite some time, while grim, gleaming death awaited me eagerly with its spiked claws.  
  
As the guards attempted to manhandle me onto the deadly contraption, the sound of someone emerging from the door must have travelled to their keen ears, for one of them turned away from me, calling out to the newcomer to identify himself.  
  
The reply came in a whirling rush of speed and force, the guard nearest the contraption felled instantly like a forest giant in a storm. He who held me quickly deposited his burden to one side in order to draw his weapon, and so I beheld the ensuing fight in a level of detail I would have preferred not to see. Crouched in a combative stance, the Turelim brought his great two-handed sword to bear in a slash that tore a scream from the rent air. His opponent, whose form was mostly hidden from view behind the vampire's broad frame, dodged the blow with a celerity that instantly convinced me that here, too was another of the undead. Hope burst into bloom within my breast. Here already was a second vampire partial to the human cause. Where there were two, should there not be many? I left my musings for another time as the fierce struggle brought the combatants in my direction. Each now had a claw locked about the other's weapon-hand, and were engaged in a deadly dance about the tower-top, wrenching each other this way and that with a violence that would have torn mortal flesh asunder. With their weapons useless, they resorted instead to their natural offensive capabilities, and took to snapping at each other with fangs distended, much in the manner of wild dogs fighting over a carcass. At length, the newcomer managed to tear his arm free of the Turelim's grasp, and shortly, my erstwhile captor went down, felled by a sledgehammer blow that would have cracked a human skull in two.  
  
Absolute silence ensued, broken to my own ears by the panicked thudding of my heart. I watched the newcomer kick the fallen vampires' weapons to one side before taking three purposeful strides in my direction. As he reached my cowering form, the moon chanced to peek out from behind a cloud, edging the figure of the stranger with a faint luminous glow. The man's low- voiced query as to my well-being, and the addition of the light both combined to aid recognition. With a low cry of relief I leaped to my feet, and I do not mind admitting that I allowed emotion to get the better of me - my mysterious visitor from the night before had turned rescuer in my hour of direst need. To see him thus, standing victorious above the bodies of those who would have hurt me and left me to die, brought out a flood of tears as I caught him in a fierce and grateful embrace.  
  
Presently, he drew me away from him, muttering that it was not safe for us to stay here. I agreed readily and followed him as quietly as I could down the stairs that led back into the keep. So concerned was I at my own clumsy attempts at stealth in the presence of this silent shadow, that it never occurred to me to wonder why my impulsive embrace had left him trembling.  
  
We descended past the level where I had met with the Lord of the Turelim, down spiral stairs that grew ever narrower and more unkempt, until we came at last to a door set deep into the natural bedrock. While my rescuer secured the portal behind us, I took stock of the low-roofed cavern in which we now stood. The room was dominated by a fast-flowing stream that had worn a deep groove in the cave floor over the years. The water flow descended from a wide gap at the far left of the ceiling, and disappeared beneath the right-hand wall. The room stank of vegetable waste and human effluent.  
  
Seeing the wrinkle in my nose, he explained. "We are below the servants' quarters here - their waste is discharged from the fortress by means of this stream."  
  
He was silent for a long moment before asking the question I was sure had been eating away at him.  
  
"What happened?"  
  
I sighed and lowered my eyes, focusing on the steel-capped boots that protruded from beneath his cloak.  
  
"The poison was ineffective. I drove the knife into his heart, and he just stood there and glared at me."  
  
The vampire hissed through his teeth. "Many partisans died to obtain that toxin. Now all our plans are come to nothing." He was lost to me then in a moment of the deepest introspection, and I fell to watching his graceful form as he paced slowly before the door, mesmerised by the undulating movement of his cloak. He seemed to remember me of a sudden.  
  
"But you still live, so all is not lost." Before I could question his meaning, he resumed his speech. "The stream will afford you escape from the fortress - none of Turel's kin will be able to follow you, and by the time you reach the outside, you will have but a short time to wait before dawn."  
  
He led me by the arm to the shore of the foul-smelling waters, keeping me between him and the liquid that was deadly to him as any poison. "The watercourse terminates in a shallow lake at the base of the cliff. When you reach the outside, you will see the lights of a village through the trees. Go to the Inn and ask for Belfield - he will give you shelter until I can join you."  
  
"Will you not come with me?" I asked, ashamed of the disappointment that showed in my tone.  
  
"No - I must make sure you are not followed, and besides, I cannot tread this path."  
  
"But they'll kill you if they find you!" I blurted out. Surprisingly enough, I found myself quite concerned for the safety of my new friend. The thought of his death at the hands of the hated Turelim - especially the Vampire Lord's scar-faced first-born - was abhorrent to me.  
  
The creature reached out a hand and tentatively touched my short-cropped hair, testing the lopsided length. I sensed a smile in his voice as he replied:  
  
"IF they find me - I am the least of your worries, Althea - now go. Tell them Farsight sends you. I will be with you as soon as I can, but I have business to the east and may not be able to come straight away."  
  
I thanked him brokenly, aware of nothing for the moment but his hand teasing the ends of my hair. As I had told the Priest, I had not known men before, and for the first time since my mind had been filled with the accumulated knowledge of the Temple, I found myself almost wanting to put my new skills into practice.  
  
"Go now."  
  
I forced myself to approach the stream, odious and turgid beyond compare, and gritted my teeth as I lowered myself in. I allowed myself one final glance at 'Farsight', noting with a sense of melancholy that some strands of my hair had attached themselves to his cloak, probably when I had hugged him. I was glad. I felt as though I had given him a keepsake.  
  
As I followed the foul watercourse from the cavern, I found myself wondering if the Gods punished mortals who prayed for the safety of their enemies.  
  
*  
  
A/N  
  
It's 1:30 am, and I have to leave the house in 6 hours. Bloody stinking unrelenting merciless writing muse!  
  
Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far - Review Response next chapter - I'm far too tired to write anything else now! 


	6. Chapter 6

I had once seen an act of utter inhumanity.

Deep below the laundry rooms where I had habitually toiled, the used liquids were siphoned from the slave pits by means of massive grilled troughs.  From time to time, the bars at the base of these depressions would become blocked with ordure and scraps of linen, and flooding would result if the blockage were not cleared quickly.  On one occasion, the obstruction was particularly severe, and no amount of prodding with the specially formed poles would clear it.  The priests' solution to this dilemma was to lower a young boy head first into the water, with the mandate that he must unblock the grate before he was allowed to return to the surface.

We watched speechless as the priests held him under, swearing and cursing while the bubbles rising to the top diminished along with the thrashing of the waters, until at last the surface was still. It was while we had our heads bowed in grief that the adepts grabbed another of our number and threw her in next to the body of the dead youth.  She was threatened loudly with an identical fate if she did not finish the job.

Four of my fellow prisoners expired in the murky waters of the laundry drain that day, and I still wake up sweating on occasion, half-convinced that my lungs are straining for air, my head bursting from pressure, my eyes clouded by the miry liquid – and yet still able to see with horrific clarity the four rotting bodies that float and bump against me as I drown.

Needless to say, this escape route was making me wish I had stayed on Traitor's Row.

The water itself was not cold – likely it was likely polluted with effluent from the kitchens as well as the baths and commodes - but it was sluggish, and filled with tiny particles of detritus that seemed to coalesce into solid mass as I moved forward.  I did not want to imagine what constituted the heavier flotsam that nudged against me with the surging of the tides.  To my mind the water heaved with corpses, all of them jealous of my continued life, and eager to steal it from me.  To make my situation worse, my face was swollen and bruised where Turel had struck me, and my neck, too was aching from the force of the blow.  I was exhausted, mentally and physically from the events of the last few hours: but still, I pressed on.  The cave soon gave onto a narrow tunnel, just tall enough for me to stand upright without stooping.  The dark grew ever closer as I distanced myself from the main cavern, until eventually I stopped, aware only of the cool surging of the water, afraid to advance any further.  I had lost the last of the light.  Presently, encouraged to speed by the squeaking of vermin, I began to feel my way forward, hands on the walls to either side of me. That was when the floor unkindly slipped out from under me and I tumbled screaming down a long, natural rock chute, my head mostly submerged.  Fortunately, the descent was not overlong, and I soon found myself ejected at a rate of knots into a shallow pool at the base of a gigantic cliff.

Dawn that morning had painted the sky the colour of soiled winding shrouds - but to my eyes, it was the most beautiful sunrise I had ever seen.  It was also the first, but the mind takes little account of such trivial details when appreciating aesthetics.  I dragged my bruised and weary body to the far shore, hauling myself out with the help of a long-dead tree, its twisted and gnarled branches forced by nature's art into the semblance of an old man with a walking stick.  I sat on the bank awhile, lamenting the state of my magnificent dress, stained and torn beyond all hope of repair.  Then, as the sun rose higher behind the ever-present cloak of smog, I saw how far I had fallen.  The Turelim fortress was seated atop a rocky crag on the northern coast – this much I knew – but I could not possibly have conceived of the sheer height of the escarpment that supported it.  No wonder it was reputed to be unconquerable: tales of its impenetrability were told in hushed whispers by the priests at the Temple, as well as the overseers at the slave pits.  None could enter who were not bidden, and likewise none could leave without Turel's sanction.

That thought enervated my clouded and weary mind: I, Althea, had already proved them wrong!

The Tavern was emblazoned with the unlikely name of 'The Eagle's Feather', and sat in an equally unlikely spot between the local constabulary office and an apothecary shop. I stood outside for a long time, shivering in the unfriendly chill of early morn.  I had never been in a free house before, and, scantly dressed as I was, and stinking of the sewers, I wished I could think of an alternative.  Soon, however, the cold that was eating into the very marrow of my bones overrode any latent sense of propriety, and I reluctantly pushed open the door. 

I crossed the threshold to find that even in the early post-dawn hours, the pub was thronging with patrons, none of them too friendly-looking, and all of whom rose to their feet as I entered. As one, they moved to point their rusted and battered swords at my throat.

The stresses of the last twenty-four hours finally took their toll: from my apprehensiveness before meeting Turel to my failed assassination attempt; from my brush with death at Traitors Row to my subsequent eleventh-hour rescue; then, my nearly drowning in the foul depths of the slurry pit, and my race through the wight-haunted woods to the Tavern; if this was not enough, I had arrived at my destination only to find that the people with whom I had hoped to find sanctuary were about to kill me!  My overwrought mind and body rebelled against me, and I shortly gave up the fight, wondering at the encroaching dark that furred my vision while the floor came rushing up to meet me.

The remainder of that day I spent mostly asleep.  Belfield's kindly wife Sarah had taken one look at my pitiful, crumpled form before ordering the men to put away their weapons ('for shame!') and arranging for me to be removed to a comfortable bed.  When I came around, I recounted my tale to Belfield and his wife, mentioning that Farsight had sent me, and emphasising my gratitude for their shelter. On hearing the extent of my miseries, Belfield's good lady, filled with sympathy for the bedraggled and distressed waif who had landed on her doorstep, promptly mothered me until I cried.

Later that night I sat in the bar soaking up the atmosphere, and, relaxed and warm for what felt like the first time in an age, I fell to thinking – about freedom, about my future, and particularly about my mysterious friend.

What sort of name was 'Farsight', anyway?  Not a real one, to be sure - but then, were I a vampire attempting to shift the balance of power by betraying my own kind, I would not be eager to reveal my true identity either.  Nevertheless, the mystery plagued me.

"Who **is** Farsight?" I asked the inkeeper in a moment of relative calm, my curiosity getting the better of me at last.

Belfield, officiously polishing a tankard with a dirty rag, beckoned me down to join him in a whispered conversation over the bar.

"It is said - " he paused to cast several suspicious glances around his establishment, "That he is one of the _clanless_." 

I hardly caught the last word, for the inkeep seemed determined to mouth it without vocalising in the slightest.

The clanless? I had heard of no such people before, and though I could guess what the word meant, I found myself at a loss to work out how a vampire could have no Clan.

Belfield, sensing my ignorance, continued to whisper across the bar.  I had to lean in close to catch every mumbled word.

"They are the outcasts, the deserters, the ones who think_ his_ rule is unjust."  He peered about him again, seemingly deaf and blind to the dispute that was brewing in the far corner of his pub.  "From what our friend tells me, they, along with the remnants of the human armies, are gathering in great numbers to the east, and when they have enough men  . . ."  He stood upright and went back to polishing the tankard, coating the inside with a fresh layer of grime.

I remained hunched over the bar with my mouth open expectantly, waiting for him to continue.  He shrugged.  "_Hi_s days'll be numbered."

I leaned back on my stool.  The ruckus in the background had reached new heights and furniture was starting to splinter.

"Here, knock it off, you lot!"

I was left alone again as Belfield went off to sort out the troublemakers, and I turned to watch him to see what he would do.  To my utter surprise, the rotund barman showed considerable strength, catching two of the rabble by the scruffs of their necks and evicting them forthwith; the third he actually picked up by collar and seat and launched him out of the door in a manner I had thought reserved for high storytelling.  My estimation of the man rose considerably.  He returned to the bar, brushing his hands together in a satisfied manner.

"That'll learn 'em!"

I spent the next few days in a sea of uncertainty and tension.  Although Belfield was kind enough to offer me a small room, and food and drink in exchange for a number of light menial chores, I could not help but be distracted constantly by concerns for Farsight's safety.  My evenings I spent in the main room of the inn, listening in wonder to the tales of free men, and at length it occurred to me that this village was not much farther from the Turelim stronghold than the slave pits were, on the far side.  Overcome again by my insatiable curiosity, I plucked up the courage to question Belfield on the potentially sensitive matter of the town's apparent impunity.

The man's face darkened and the lines of pain, written clearly on his face but more often buried beneath bluster and bravado came into clear relief.

"How do we keep' em off our backs, you ask?"  He shook his head and turned to tend the spit.  "We pay for it with our dearest blood."

I decided to let the line of questioning drop.

**Review Response**

SeredaThanks very very much for your detailed reviews – as I think I mentioned before, your analyses usually remind me what the story's actually about and help me figure out where it's going!  Oh, and your quip about Elvira had me choking on my Glenmorangie!

Vladimir's Angel: Thanks for the reviews, m'dear, and great to hear that the characters are having the desired effect.  So where's chapter 2?  Eh?  Eh?  *rummages around online*   Love the new ID btw :P

MikotoZoku Glad to hear the suspense is working, and hope you've got something new up your sleeve too? *wheedles*

SilmuenAre you still tantalised? *chuckles evilly* Ta for all your lovely comments – dark gift, eh? *giggles insanely*  As for that 'for humanity' thing.  Er. It shall be explained! *scuttles off to write something into the story (not that she'd forgotten…)*

ShadowrayneGood to see you back writing (and reviewing!), and no, you can't have the rest on email cos it's all messy!   

SyviaWhy would anyone take offence at being called 'devious'? :P  And yup, more surprises to come. *starts wrapping them in foil paper*  

*hugs* back atcha!

Dragonseer: 0.0 I got a review from Dragonseer.  *falls over*  :D Thanks for the comments and glad you're enjoying, and I could tell you his Clan but I'm not going to, so there :P.  This damn writing time thingie is a pain in the proverbial to find *looks at clock*  Good job I'm on flexi time…

Aquasword Thanks very much for your kind comments – hope the story's still holding your interest – more of Turel to come, honest!

HealerAriel: Nope, it's not Faustus – the story's set quite a bit later than that.  And as to your other question, no, it's still not Faustus. :D All will be revealed shortly.

Skriana The Shadow Dragon:  Yup, it's good to take a different perspective once in a while – not that I don't love the versions that champion the Vampire side ;)

Dark Sephiroth: :D Thanks for the comments about my characters *dances around* – I hope you realise that the two fight scenes I'm working into this story are mostly just for your benefit! :P

Genesis Idiocy: Glad you're enjoying it, and thanks for all the flabbergasting comments. You've been skulking around here before, I take it? ;)

Mad Alice: Hopefully the interesting factor hasn't worn off yet… :D

Tom T Thompson: Glad you like!

Kitcho and Chelsea Foreverthanks very much – it's always nice to get new readers, especially ones who wouldn't normally read my mad ramblings!

Hope I didn't forget anyone, much grovelling if I did.  Next chapter up soon *glares at draft*  disentangle yourself, gosh darnit!


	7. Chapter 7

At the end of a long week, a man arrived. To look at, he was no different to any of the other sots who frequented Belfield's tavern, but his arrival engendered an odd sort of silence among the patrons. One by one, several of the regulars rose, made their excuses, and left by the side door. Shortly, Belfield called on Sarah to take charge of the bar, a situation I had thought never to see. As he too was about to leave, he caught my eye and jerked his head in the direction of the door. I accepted his unspoken invitation, eager to find out what was afoot, and followed him outside to the barn that stood behind the Eagle's Feather. Here I found those who had left the pub seated on barrels or leaning against the wall, all talking in low voices with a civility I found completely out-of-character after their bawdy behaviour throughout the week.  
  
My entrance provoked a sudden outcry.  
  
"Oi! What's she doin' 'ere, Bel? This ain't none of 'er business!"  
  
Belfield came to my defence. "Farsight himself sent her to meet us."  
  
They looked at me now with a new respect. Obviously the man was held in high esteem by the rag-tag band that frequented the inn.  
  
The new arrival now stood and approached me. He introduced himself as Derwen, and stated that he had just come from talking with Farsight. My heart gave a leap in my chest – he too had escaped – and moreover, he still lived!  
  
"You are Althea, I take it?" I nodded mutely, my mind's eye fixed on a cloaked figure who skulked like a silken shadow through paths to which I was blind. Derwen turned to address those assembled.  
  
"This woman escaped alive from the heart of the Turelim fortress!"  
  
The crowd quietened, the murmur of conversation soon rising again as comments were passed. I did not miss the fact that a lot of them pertained to the colour of my hair, and that, apparently, made my escape a most unlikely circumstance.  
  
One of the older men shook his greasy, graying head, his eyes belying a secret pain as he looked upon me.  
  
"Lies. No woman of her . . . looks . . . would have been allowed to leave."  
  
Derwen championed me, much to my chagrin, his enthusiasm making me grind my teeth in embarrassment. "She succeeded in stabbing the Lord of the Turelim himself!" He cried, raising my arm aloft. I felt the subsequent adulation quite out of place: after all, the attempt had failed.  
  
"Turel is dead?" jabbered one of the men excitedly.  
  
I shook my head. "He was unharmed." I replied, my curiosity bubbling up again at the man's comment about my looks, but I was uncertain how to query him without seeming vain.  
  
The air of excitement that had coursed through the crowd at Derwen's exclamation began to die away, and one by one they retook their seats.  
  
Derwen elaborated on my laconic reply. "The blade was dipped in Anarcrothe's Bane – but the tales we heard were false." There was a pregnant silence. "Vampires are immune."  
  
There was a lot of swearing and cursing at this news, and I guessed that some of these men had lost comrades or relatives, judging by the sadness on their faces, in the obtaining of the toxin. I felt for them. Derwen, evidently accustomed to his work, turned to more positive matters.  
  
"Farsight sends good news: he has located the Red Brothers. Their forces will come to join with ours in the next few days."  
  
"The word is given then?" asked one, a lean, mustachioed man with a boxer's nose.  
  
Derwen nodded. "We are going to war."  
  
Much of the ensuing discussion was lost on me, as it pertained to people and places of which I had no knowledge, limited as my life had been to the confines of the slave pits, and more recently the Temple. I listened nonetheless, as their main intent seemed to be in storming the castle.  
  
I asked Belfield in a quiet aside how these men, farmers and long-time drunkards to a man, could hope to take such a massive military target. Far from taking offence, he chuckled and motioned to one of the younger lads to draw aside a large sheet of dark-coloured cloth that bisected the barn. My eyes widened as the light played upon a veritable dragon's hoard. From one side of the wide building to the other, the floor and walls were decked with suits of armour: plate mail, chain mail, hauberks and breastplates - protection of every kind in steel and leather; weapons, too were scattered around in abundance, the more precious of which were wrapped in oilcloth to preserve them from the capricious elements.  
  
"We weren't always farmers!" quipped Belfield, his face ruddied a little more than usual with the consumption of some of his finest wine. "And besides, the Red Brothers are legendary. They have been hunting and killing vampires for years. I can't wait to see Turel's face when they pull the rug from under him."  
  
The evening descended into a scene of revelry, spiced with brash discussions on how they would wipe the Vampire scourge from the face of Nosgoth. I got caught up in it all, affected by their contagious enthusiasm, and before long, I began to believe once more that there might at last be hope for humanity.  
  
*  
  
Another week passed, and still there was no sign of the Red Brothers. The enthusiastic, decent men who had replaced the frequently drunken patrons of Belfield's inn vanished, and, by the end of the week, they had turned once more into inebriated farmers, hell bent on spending their evenings in their habitual merrymaking and carousing.  
  
For my part, I was slowly becoming accustomed to life in the tavern. Sarah seemed to have adopted me as some kind of surrogate child, though I refrained from asking if she had ever had a daughter - the look in her eyes whenever children were mentioned was enough to warn me off the subject. Meanwhile, I willingly helped with the chores, especially when they involved anything that would take me outside the inn, for then I could watch the street for some sign of Farsight (though I knew how foolish it was to imagine he could approach in daylight), and for the coming of the Red Brothers.  
  
'The Red Brothers'. The very name conjured images of a battalion of fearless knights - perhaps members of some ancient holy order - their armour, once a dazzling silver, now caked with the blood of vanquished undead. No sign of sloppiness was this, no hint that the knights did not care for their appearance; rather it served at once as a trophy, and a warning to any who would cross them. Handsome they would be, but humble, and kind; honourable and gentile to a man. I could envisage their arrival clearly, and I tortured myself with the imaginary scene for days as I waited for them to come. They would canter into the village in a flurry of horses' hooves and flying cloaks, the air ablaze with the red that signified their impending victory. Cherry-blossom would tumble from the trees and pave their way to the inn, where they would be warmly welcomed as brothers in arms. I watched the main street obsessively.  
  
At the tail end of the week, they arrived. Three bedraggled figures in rusty brown armour who staggered hurriedly into the pub, one of them bearing a nasty flesh wound. When the excitement had died down, and the customers plied with free ale to keep bother to a minimum, Derwen approached and engaged he who looked least harried.  
  
"You are of the Red Brotherhood?"  
  
The man nodded, still trying to catch his breath. "Kel," he muttered, by way of introduction, clasping Derwen's hand in a bloody grip.  
  
Belfield made his way through the crowding onlookers, pushing them firmly aside while using his considerable height to his advantage. He stopped at the front of the group and rocked on his heels, thumbs hooked into his belt, a stance which by now I recognised as his 'official' pose.  
  
"Are the others following behind you?"  
  
Kel turned from his supervision of the binding of his comrade's wounds to fix the inkeep with a morose glare.  
  
"No."  
  
It was the first time I had seen the verbose barman at a loss for words. Derwen stepped into the breach.  
  
"Will they meet us at the Fortress then?"  
  
Having satisfied himself that Sarah was doing a satisfactory job on his friend's arm, Kel finally gave the curious group his full attention. He seated himself on a rickety wooden chair and began to remove his slashed and dented gauntlets.  
  
"They will not meet us anywhere now – unless at the gates to the Underworld."  
  
There was a moment of shocked silence as the meaning filtered through.  
  
"They are lost?" It took me a moment to realise it was I who had spoken.  
  
Kel glowered at me from beneath his brows, his expression shortly softening as he shook his head and began to check the condition of his pauldrons. Even now, in this moment of respite, his professionalism was coming to the fore. Despite their wounds and the state of their armour, I had no doubt that these knights would be battle-ready again before too long.  
  
"Two days ago, we engaged in a great battle at an outpost on the eastern border of Turel's lands. The attack was well-planned, and for a while we thought we had won." He paused and gazed introspectively at his fist, clenching it while lost in his own harrowing memories. "Farsight joined us in the thick of the fight – he fought like a lion – easily worth ten of my men – but yet it was not enough to win the day." I almost missed the rest of his speech, as I fell into a daydream that involved my odd friend fighting at the side of the Red Brothers, and single-handedly decimating an entire Turelim battalion.  
  
"The Turelim brought out fresh troops, twice again the number we already faced, and we were forced to withdraw."  
  
I bit down on my immediate question. Flippant queries as to the vampire's survival seemed tactless in the face of such loss. Almost as though he had sensed my thoughts, Kel stood and approached me.  
  
"Before we were separated, Farsight told us we would find a woman named Althea in the village at the foot of the Turelim fortress, and that she would know of a secret route into the castle."  
  
My jaw dropped. "I'm not going back in there – you can't ask me to do that!"  
  
No one said anything, but their looks implied much. They had taken in an escaped concubine – at no small risk to themselves - given her a place to live, and food to eat, and now she refused to aid them in their plan to destroy a common enemy. I felt like dirt.  
  
The other of the Red Brothers who was not injured approached me, a strange look on his face, and he spoke two words, whose tone and intonation suggested that they had been rehearsed.  
  
"For humanity."  
  
I hung my head. I could not refuse their request. Without me, it was highly dubious that they would find the sewer outlet that led back into the nightmare domain of the Turelim.  
  
"I will lead you to the entrance of the tunnel." I conceded.  
  
The man named Kel stepped up close in front of me, so close in fact that I could see the caked blood and rust that decorated his dented armour.  
  
"You will need to lead us directly to the throne room by the route Farsight showed you – we are to rendezvous with him there."  
  
My spirits sank again – I would not be able to do this by half-measures. I was going to have to face my fears and return by the foul water chute to the very source of my terrors. However, Kel's comment about Farsight meeting us there did much to dispel my worries, and the very thought of seeing him again gave me new resolve. I could do it – no, I must. I owed him.  
  
Nodding to me to confirm that I would comply, the Brother turned to address the gathered men.  
  
"We attack at midday on the Sabbath – the keep will be at its quietest. Farsight has told us that the forces he has mustered from the four corners of the land will congregate there at that specific time – humankind will unite and take down the Vampire Lord and all his hell-spawned minions."  
  
The men were with him by now, cheering at every pause in his speech.  
  
"And when Turel has fallen, our warriors will take the fight to the next of Kain's sons – and the next, until all have fallen to our might!"  
  
The noise in the room was bordering on uproar by now, the promise of deeds valiant and true whipping up a frenzy amongst the thrill-hungry farmers.  
  
"We will take back our land, free our kin from bondage and reinstate ourselves as masters of our rightful land. Nosgoth will be ours again!"  
  
Every man there was set ablaze with the power of his words, and proved it by making as much noise as possible. There was none now present who did not think the deed not only accomplishable, but preordained.  
  
None save one. 


	8. Chapter 8

It was an optimistic little band that had marched out of the village at mid-morning on the Sabbath, accompanied as we went by a feisty tune the local musicians had put together just for the occasion. There was much luck-wishing and hugging and fond farewells amongst the married couples, while the bachelors of the group received such attention from the ladies that already they looked forward to their triumphant return, and the fleshly rewards that were hinted at by the damsels' fluttering eyes. Even later, as we stood in a loose circle on the banks of the outlet pool, listening earnestly to last-minute pieces of advice from Kel of the Red Brothers, the mood remained bright and carefree. All looked forward now to a battle that had been too long in the offing, and the prospect of taking a surprise strike to the heart of one of the vampire Lieutenants' clanlands was nigh on intoxicating. At Kel's command, I sought out the old-man tree I had noticed on my exit from Turel's home, and led the heartily-bantering men across the water to the narrow opening that would lead us to our goal.

There is nothing like sewage to dampen the spirits.

The ascent of the pipe was far more difficult than my precipitous descent had been, and we lost one man to the roaring onslaught of falling water before we had gone half-way. The cheery chitchat that had prevailed since we set out was replaced by a surly silence as each man fought for his grip and his air against the grey-brown sludge that poured endlessly through the waste pipe. Despite the hardship, the rest of us reached the cavern alive and intact – if a little on the insalubrious side.

It was then an almost suspiciously easy matter to ascend to the level of the throne room: as Farsight had intimated to Kel in their discussions, there were precious few of the undead around at this noonday hour. With anticipation surging through my veins like a fever, I accompanied the odd little band as they stole towards the throne room doors. My heart began to beat a little faster, and I will confess that it was less from fear than from the knowledge that soon I would see in reality the cloaked figure that had haunted my dreams so much of late. I clasped my hands to my chest as Kel and his fellow Brethren set their shoulders against the massive carven portals – although they had warned me to stay at the back when the fighting broke out, still it seemed to me that I would have the best view of this momentous battle. I was almost choking in my excitement.

As midday struck with the clanging of a great gong, the doors finally gave before the might of the Red Brothers, and swung slowly inwards to reveal the darkened throne room. From what I understood, the room had three other entrances, and Farsight had assigned each of the human forces he had gathered to a different door. All were to be opened simultaneously on the stroke of twelve. However, as our eyes became accustomed to the dim light within, it became apparent that something was amiss. The other three doors were sealed shut, and the centre of the room was occupied by a large band of Turelim guards, all of whom looked alert and very much awake, considering the time of day. 

I could not understand it – where were the other human factions? Where the brothers of man who had supposedly rallied to one anothers' support in this time of strife? 

More importantly, where the hell was Farsight?

I had no time to speculate further on the whereabouts of these people, as I heard Belfield and the Red Brothers refuse the Turelim's demand for their immediate surrender, and I watched in dismay as a bizarre sort of fight broke out.

I had never seen such a blatant game of cat-and-mouse in all my born days – and I assure you, I had seen prisoners goaded and tricked by the Priests times without number. The Red Brothers thundered forth with the animal ferocity for which they were renowned, their arced blades flashing in asynchronous harmony. Before long, their armour was coated in a fresh sheen of vampire blood, and I could easily see how they had earned their name. Meanwhile Belfield and his band of sobered scoundrels took an approach which, while slightly less cohesive, was not lacking in its own brand of aggression. They split off into two groups, one either side of the massive bartender. While one bombarded the defending undead with knives, arrows and colourful language, the other - slightly better armoured - waded in to the fray armed with an array of polished melee weapons, and an equal amount of expletives.

Still, I could not shake the feeling that something here was not right. In direct contrast to the obvious fervour that animated the attacking forces, the vampire guard seemed almost resigned. They met the thrusts and blows of their enemies with slow disinterest, and the more I watched, the more I became convinced that they were simply holding them off until someone told them otherwise.

My suspicions were confirmed as, watching from a safe corner, I saw the horrific sight of the Turelim Lieutenant himself strolling onto his dais in a most unconcerned manner, and seating himself on his throne. Before I could warn my comrades, the tide turned in a wave of bloodshed the like of which I had never seen. As though animated by the arrival of their master, the Turelim guards began to deal lethal blows, their force sundering limbs and heads with the ease of those born to kill. Not even the fabled Red Brothers were able to stand against their tremendous retalliative assault, and in the space of a few short minutes, none remained alive but myself, Belfield, and Kel.

The two men were dragged forwards and forced to their knees before the throne, while another of the massive warriors extricated me from my hiding place and, with a shove, sent me down to join them.

A sickly, sulphurous light slowly pervaded the room, bringing into stark relief the lounging figure of the Turelim master. I lowered my head for fear that he should see my face and know me for who I was.

Turel considered us for a long moment, his silence more unnerving than any amount of abuse. At length, he spoke, his icy tones sending shivers of revulsion through my already trembling frame.

"Welcome to my house. I have been expecting you – although I did not foresee the exact hour of your arrival." His gaze swept us again, and I quickly averted my eyes. He cannot have seen my face, for he continued unperturbed. 

"I have known of your little 'uprising' for some time; of your attempts to recruit the last of the Red Brothers and raise a human army to beleaguer me." He drummed the three massive talons of his left claw against the armrest of his throne. The ensuing sound was a tattoo of death. 

"You _almost_ caused me to lose men at one of my eastern outposts last week. Fortunately, they were more than a match for your pitiful band." 

He looked down his long nose at the last of the Red Brothers, who was glaring at him with hatred scribed deeply all over his features.

"I hear they sent their heads back to their families in gaily wrapped boxes," he remarked conversationally.

Kel's struggles began afresh, and he almost succeeded in rising from the floor, the face of the hated Vampire Lord his ultimate target. He received a boot in the ribs for the attempt.

"But still I am troubled," Turel steepled his fingers before him, a frown on his lowered brow. "You humans have made various futile attempts at some sort of military coup over the years, and while you were kept apart in separate little pockets, you posed no real threat to our reign. Why now have you decided to attack such massive targets? Hm? And speaking of which, how did you get inside my 'impregnable' walls?" he narrowed his eyes, taking in each of the figures kneeling before him in turn. His voice dropped to a threatening whisper, akin to that of a night-time thief discovered in a lady's bedchamber.

"There is no way this rabble you call an army could have entered the castle unaided. Someone is helping you."

He rose from his throne with unnerving speed, a coiled rattlesnake sensing prey.

"Who?"

Belfield was the first to fall foul of Turel's brand of questioning, but to the inkeep's credit, he spoke not a single word during the entirety of the interrogation, apart from the whispered 'go to hell' that issued from between bleeding lips as the Vampire Lord stalked away. Kel was even more stoic, refusing to open his mouth, even when the callous beast broke every single joint in each of his fingers. Turel left him kneeling in agony, cradling his mangled hands while he turned to finish his questioning. My heart was in my throat by the time he reached me. He knew me instantly, of course, the recognition bringing a slow, cruel smile to his pallid features.

"And what have we here? The little viper who tried to wriggle her way into my bed?"

He leaned down and grabbed me by the remnants of my hair, wetting my face with the sibilants of his query.

"Who sent you? Tell me now and I might let you live. Continue to keep your peace and-" he let the threat trail off into empty air. The sly grin he aimed at one of his Elite guard was enough to assure me of my fate should I not respond.

I had already made my decision. I would not betray him, not in a million years. Sooner Traitor's Row or death by drowning than living in the knowledge that I had condemned Farsight.

Turel responded to my firm refusal with an aggravated growl.

There are times, when all seems lost, when despair has taken root so firmly in a person's heart that they think that hope will never again be able to gain entry. How quickly such feelings can be banished with the advent of good fortune! With a sound like shattering ice, the throne room doors burst open, forcing back the guards against them with irresistible power until they were pressed against the wall, arms and legs struggling wildly against the solid wooden barrier. A hooded figure strode into the hall, heedless of the fuss caused by his entrance, while the dim light picked out the patchworked sections of his swirling cloak. I caught my breath as recognition washed over me – Farsight had come! But where were the reinforcements he had promised? Could it be that they had met a like fate on their way to the throne room? I watched aghast as his confident stride brought him level with us - he could not risk himself like this! If we were to fall today, as seemed likely, then he at least must escape alive, to raise another army and try again - I had already come to think of us three as expendable in this battle. I shook my head at him, panicked, and he made a calming gesture.

Turel straightened from where he bent over me and returned to his throne, where he came to a halt with arms folded belligerently. Farsight faced him squarely, chin held aloft.

"So," growled Turel, "The traitor reveals himself."

I swallowed hard, wishing with all my might that my vampire friend would leave now while he still could – there was no sense in him sacrificing his life along with ours.

"He does." Replied Farsight. In a single, fluid motion, he threw back his hood to reveal sharp-cut black hair, lissom eyes and a scarred cheek. 

My mouth dropped open in bewilderment as I recognised Turel's first-born. 

The rebellion was being led from within the Turelim hierarchy itself! Surely now all was not lost? Even though our deaths were certain, Turel must suffer a heavy blow for this. 

The Vampire Lord hissed a low command.

"Come here, Isaac."

He complied at once, striding fearlessly towards the throne, and what would surely be his untimely demise – unless he was foolhardy enough to risk an attempt on Turel's life himself?! I watched with bated breath as he halted before his Lord.

Turel raised his eyebrows expectantly before waving his arm in an imperious gesture. 

Isaac inclined his head in subservience before ascending the steps to the throne and taking up his customary position at Turel's right hand.

My face must have been a picture, for Turel burst out laughing, and shortly, he was joined by a number of other voices. It took me a moment to realise that one of these was Turel's first-born himself. I looked across to see him chuckling scornfully at me, and even as he cast aside his cloak and took a seat at his Sire's side, my mind still refused to accept the truth. Surely any moment he must pluck out a dagger and stab it viciously into his oblivious master's heart? Surely he was lulling Turel into a false sense of security with this double-bluff? As the seconds ticked by and the scene remained unchanged, I was forced to rethink my opinion yet again.

Turel gave his child a warm, approving smile that was completely out of place on his harsh features, before he turned his acid gaze upon me. Interpreting my lost expression and evidently taking infinite delight therefrom, he offered an explanation which I was only too eager to hear.

"My first-born here is in the habit of providing amusement for me, from time to time."

He rested a massive claw on Isaac's shoulder and gave it an approbatory shake. He then descended the steps past his son, who wore an expression of exquisite smugness, and approached us with a swagger in his step.

"He knows how tiresome I find my duties from time to time: the unending and unvarying tasks of keeping you filthy humans downtrodden." He shot another fond grin at his child before continuing. "Sometimes he sends vengeful little humans to attack me in my sleep, sometimes outcast vampires with a grudge against me, and sometimes he stirs up the local peasantry into a revolt." he chuckled, shaking his head appreciatively, "But this! This is the most inventive deception so far – and has provided me with several long nights of amusement!"

I could hear the muffled curses from the two men beside me, both of whom had put their complete trust – not to mention their lives – in 'Farsight's word.

Meanwhile, Turel's first-born was fairly aglow with pride. I cursed the flagstones that stopped the earth from swallowing him up. To think I had held him in such high regard; to think I had held him tight against me, with naive desires clamouring to be released. How easily we are led astray by our foolish human hearts! It was then that a number of little niggling things started to fall into place: when I had embraced him on Traitor's row, he had indeed been trembling - not from desire, but from suppressed laughter at my naiveté; the strands of hair I had seen on his cloak - far too long to have come from my shorn head – must have attached themselves to him as he brushed against Turel when racing out of the throne room after me; and even his assumed name – had the Priest who had brought me here not mentioned Turel's 'far-seeing eye'? I closed my eyes as though in pain - how easily and completely I had blinded myself to the truth! 

"Why me?" The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. How arrogant I felt, asking the Vampire Gods why they had singled me out to play their games – surely the choice had been arbitrary – but with nothing left to lose, my curiosity must be appeased.

Isaac looked for his Lord's permission before he began to speak.

"My Sire has always had something of a weakness for fair-haired women – so much so, in fact, that there are scarcely any to be found alive in these parts."

Turel voiced a quiet chuckle as Isaac continued to enlighten us at last. "The village I sent you to once had an abundant stock of such wenches, and, as partial to the hair colour as he was, my Lord demanded they all be given to him as tithe – in return for the continued safety of their people. 

"When the High Priest told me he had found another corn-haired female - in the slave pits of all places – I contrived to have you prepared as a concubine, while charging you with a ridiculous mission to provide my Lord with some distraction. 'For humanity'," he paused to laugh aloud. "Oh I could hardly keep a straight face when you fell for it! I thought you would have a good chance of seducing him, what with that ridiculous yellow hair of yours . . ." Isaac made his dislike of my natural colouring abundantly clear with the addition of a curled-lip snarl. I glanced across to see his female counterpart approach him with a sway in her hips and Isaac quickly locked an arm about her waist, holding her possessively against his side. She grinned at me with eyes like flame pits as she stroked his chest provocatively.

Only one question still burned. "The Red Brothers," I ventured, "Why did you send them to aid us?"

Isaac smiled faintly before replying: his attention had already wandered to the woman in his arms. "I intended to send them to my Lord as a further distraction, an amusing gift, if you like, but I had to thin their numbers before luring them into an attack – fun and games are one thing, but I would not want any real casualties on our side." 

This last comment made me think again of the guards he had bested when 'saving my life' on Traitor's Row, and recalled with chagrin that he had used no weapon on either of them. I was such a fool not to have seen the deception!

"The Red Brothers' reputation was well earned," remarked Turel's first-born, "They were good in their day."

"But their day is past," interjected Turel, turning to his three prisoners. "As is yours." A shiver ran the length of my spine at the tone of his voice.

"Well, Isaac, you caught them – what do you wish to do with them?"

Turel's first-born ceased his casual teasing of the black-robed woman at his side and looked at his Lord in surprise. "You know how fond I am of my own invention, Sire!"

Turel nodded with a knowing grin and gave the final command for our execution. 

'Farsight', engrossed in the attentions of his female friend, did not so much as look in our direction as they dragged us bodily from the room.

*

And that is my story.

It has helped me to recount it now, albeit in my own mind: my concentration must not fail, for the bar is already slick with blood, and most of my fingernails have broken off from the strain. I turn my head painfully and note that though Kel still perseveres, Belfield has already given up the fight. Strongarm he may be, but years of savouring his own casks has given him a prodigious counterweight to for which to compensate. His body rests in a most unusual position, the lower half held rigidly in place by the penetrating spike, while the upper portion slumps brokenly, arms raised to the sky. I do not want to die like that, but it seems at the last that the choice is not mine. I squeeze my eyes tight shut and offer a last prayer to gods I am almost certain do not exist - not for me, but for humanity. 

The rain descends in a whirling dance, suffusing the air with a blurry haze - and I am glad. It means none of Turel's brood will be here to see me fall.

The rain, however, is mingling with the blood to form a sort of oily sheen that makes this post increasingly difficult to grip.

My fingers are slipping.

*

_~End~_

**Author's Notes**

Oh, I do so love leading people up the garden path. OK, hands up. How many of you were taken in by Farsight/Isaac's 'hero-in-disguise' routine? Go on, own up, let's see those hands.

*shakes head and hands around a sheet of paper* 

I think the whole lot of you had better sign up for my 'Nosgoth Survival 101' class. *wanders off muttering* ... wouldn't last two minutes out there. All it takes is a pretty face and a flash of heroics ....

*

P.S. This story was originally going to be a background story for a picture I posted on DeviantArt – and though it actually turned out very different from what I'd planned, I think the pic still suits the story somewhat.  It's here if anyone wants a look:  http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/3216552/


End file.
